Hairy Adonis

Journalist Charles Purcell tries life modelling. Is he inspiring a masterpiece?

Standing naked in front of strangers is a steep learning curve, writes Charles Purcell, after a night as a life model.

I'm naked and standing on a wooden table in a large, tastefully decorated room crammed with strangers.

Every one of them is staring intently at my nude body. When I strike a kung-fu pose, the strangers start to draw, capturing the suppleness of my biceps, the generosity of my stomach and the pure arrogance of my backside.

This isn't an exhibitionistic dream. It's the Monday night life-drawing class at the ArtHouse Hotel in Pitt Street, Sydney, and I'm the first model of the night. I'm trying to remain cool and detached as 40 strangers render my bare form using pencil, charcoal and crayon.

Half an hour ago, I was walking along Pitt Street, wondering exactly what I had gotten myself into. Sure, I'd done some wacky stuff in the past, but giving a group of art lovers a close-up of my body wasn't among them.

My girlfriend was supportive about my plans. She thought the world deserved to see my magnificent "pelt" of chest hair and sublime buttocks. Other people tittered and asked where I intended to position the grapes. Arriving at the ArtHouse Hotel at six, I introduced myself to the night's other model, Liliana Lucas, a pretty brunette. She seemed almost disappointed upon meeting me in the flesh. Was she expecting a Calvin Klein underwear model?

The well-lit room was already more than half full with young, hip people. Seats immediately in front of the posing table are prime real estate and usually occupied by the best artists.

Liliana led me to the corner of the room. There's no changing room and I realised, with some trepidation, that I would be forced to strip in full view of the class and a few distant bar patrons. Liliana asked me how I intended to pose. I hadn't given it much thought.

She showed me a few poses and suggested sport as a possible inspiration. I wondered how appropriate the haka might be.

Sweating slightly, I kept my eyes focused on the floor as I took off my clothes. I wasn't ready to catch any expressions of amusement or horror just yet. As I stripped down to my underwear, Liliana saw the Australian flag emblazoned on my silk boxers.

"Very patriotic," she said. The final garment hit the floor. I was naked. No turning back. Liliana introduced me as a journalist and I noticed a few smirks in the audience.

As I climbed onto the table I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I immediately adopted a kung-fu pose, which sent my legs and a few other bits swinging to the left. A young Asian woman emitted a shriek that sounded like something between surprise and horror. After a minute of kung-fu, Liliana commanded me to change my pose. I opted for a classic: my interpretation of Rodin's The Thinker. At this stage my muscles were holding up well. I was starting to relax. "Change," said Liliana, after a minute. The pressure to come up with new poses was daunting. I gave the class "tennis" and "fencing". The young Asian woman managed to stifle her emotions.

Liliana announced the start of the two-minute poses. I slipped into a lying-on-my-back pose that was revealing, but comfortable, my nervousness almost gone. Brimming with an unexpected confidence, I then treated the students to a pushup pose (a bad idea as my muscles started to wobble), followed by a John Travolta Saturday Night Fever pose (finger pointing skywards, buttocks and thigh muscles clenched). A few people laughed. So far I seemed to have avoided one of my more improbable fears - that I would become "spontaneously excited" while posing.

Next it was time for the fiveminute poses. I grabbed a chair, reversed it and sat down in a homage to Christine Keeler.

Unfortunately, it didn't have a solid back, so a few bits and pieces extruded between the woodwork. It was all too much for a young woman in red directly in front of me. She got up and temporarily left the room.

Michaela Clarkson, another of the ArtHouse's regular models, says this isn't a particularly unusual reaction.

"Sometimes they announce the model is male and people suddenly say, 'Oh, I've forgotten my gear' and go home,'' she says. Michaela has posed at venues including the Brett Whiteley Gallery, NIDA and the Art Gallery of NSW. A dancer, teacher and gym instructor, she's part of the small but transient group of life models working in Sydney.

"My forte is gesture drawing," says the 40-year-old. "You capture a movement while standing still, so that if someone took a photo it would appear I was in the middle of a movement.

I much prefer to be an active, dynamic figure than a passive figure. At the same time, if people want me for (classical passive posing), then that's a nice afternoon."

Michaela doesn't use many props. Occasionally, she'll wear jewellery or a hat and once she was asked to keep her shoes on, but found it an uncomfortable experience.

"There's an edge to leaving clothes on, a sexual edge - that half-dressed thing," she says.

"Life modelling's not about sex, it's like being an actress."

It's not an easy job.

"A lot of the men can't handle the pace," she says. "One of the expressions of life modelling is that, 'I'm suffering for your art'.

The three years I was doing it full-time, I'd come home after posing for nine hours physically and mentally exhausted." So when is the time to hang up the grapes, so to speak? When do life models retire?

"They can pose forever," says Michaela. "There's life models in their 60s and 70s. Life models don't die, they just take one long pose."

Liliana, another ArtHouse regular with a sizeable portfolio of work, entered the field a few years ago and discovered she was a "natural". I ask her about one of my main concerns: Just how does it feel to know that the opposite sex is looking at you as you stand there stark naked?

"I met a student of philosophy once and she said, 'men look at you with your clothes on and imagine you're naked'. So you might as well get paid for it. Admit it, it's true men do that." "They do," I admit sheepishly.

Liliana says that one of the reasons for being a life model is overcoming your inhibitions (it's not the money, the pay scale is $20 an hour and up).

"People are afraid to live their dreams," says the 30-year-old. "I want to challenge myself and do different things. I want to model for a great artist like a Rodin. I want to inspire someone to create a great masterpiece." Maybe that's what I'm doing now, inspiring a masterpiece.

(Looking at the works afterwards, the quality ranges from average to excellent. And none of them made fun of my genitalia.)

Now it's time for my final pose. I'm a bit stumped as to what I should do. One student suggests biting my finger in indecision is fine but Liliana is having none of it.

"I want him to feel what it feels like to be a model," she says.

"OK, I'll hold my hands up in the air," I say, adopting a starfish position.

It's a bad choice. After three minutes my limbs are shaking and my left arm feels like lead. Liliana can obviously feel my pain.

"One and a half minutes left," she says. I continue to struggle on. My arms are slowly creeping down. I will them back up.

"Thirty seconds," says Liliana. I am determined to see it through, even if my left arm is no longer listening to me. I wonder what the class is making of my twitching limbs.

Finally, Liliana signals the end. She entreats the class to give me a round of applause, which they heartily do. I have survived the ordeal, ego intact. I bow and step off the stage, reaching for my underwear. As I do, one of the men in the front row says: "Full body wax next time, OK?"'